


Entertainment

by orphan_account



Category: Cinderella 2015
Genre: Cute, Entertainment, Gen, Motherly love, Recovery, five year old Kit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kit is recovering from a fever and his mother is there to stop him from being bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entertainment

“Why do I have to stay in bed?” Christopher asked weakly, eyes turning longingly to the window across the room, the drapes pulled aside to let the sun in. He felt like he was drowning in false sunshine, however, the cold of winter only gradually ebbing away, and there was no warmth from the pale gold beams. “I feel fine.” That was a lie. Everything ached (he could of sworn he felt each and every muscle in his arms twinge at the slightest movement), everything was quiet (he could barely hear his mother or the physician, which might have been for the best) and his vision blurred when things moved too fast (which was all the time), and his mother knew it.

“You’ll stay in bed until you’ve recovered your strength.” Abrianna answered in a soothing tone, looking up from her embroidery with a soft smile on her face. She had been in that chair since the early morning, having brought him breakfast (a servant preparing and carrying the tray, naturally) and woken him up - the physicians said that it would not do him much harm, seeing as he needed to keep eating on a regular schedule. After the morning meal her Christopher had drifted in and out of slumber, eventually trying to sit up (she had hastily risen to her feet and aided him in his pursuit), and even entered into a short conversation with her on what she was embroidering.

Three days. It had been three whole days since the fever had broken, since the Royal Physician had advised her to give in to the (seemingly) inevitable. Now, her baby was eating more than half his meals and had enough strength to move around. He had not made any attempt to walk, yet - or so she thought - and it did not seem like a good idea, at any rate. His father had been coaxed out of his study a day after it was declared the prince was out of danger, and in the night Abrianna had convinced him to come visit their son. He had wept, at last unashamedly before her (Abrianna never understood why society dictated that strong men could not cry), and stared at him for half the night, as if it were a dream. Unlike her, he had resigned himself to losing his little boy, and the darkest thoughts to ever enter his usually very level head had formed in the gloom of his locked study.

“Mamma-"

“Madre.” She corrected him with a sigh, knowing it would not do for the courtiers to believe that the heir was incredibly attached to his mother. One of many unfair facts of life for women, she found, was that a son could be his fathers shadow and none would bat an eye, but would suffer mocking should he be his mothers constant companion - as if her husband did not coddle and pamper their child as much as she did! “Or Mother.” Mother would be better, as it would not do to have the courtiers reminded that the heir to the throne was half Italian. They liked to think of their Crown Prince as the son of his father, not his irrelevant mother. In later years, but still in her sons lifetime, the King and Queen were revered almost equally by all, however now was not such a time.

“Mother.” Christopher allowed, accepting her later instruction. “I’m bored.” The royal nursery was, as of yet, not a riveting source of amusement, and while there was an unending supply of toys, there was no source of imagination to be found within the walls. More children, Abrianna supposed, would make the place lively and gay, but a solitary child only made it look more empty. “Everything I want to do is outside.” Indeed, horse riding tended to be a sport for outdoor areas, and, although she was queen, Abrianna could not help the matter.

“What if I read you a story?” He adored stories, most especially stories of magic. He didn’t much care for their kingdoms national treasure of a tale, of Snow White and the Poisoned Apple, and nor did Abrianna, but whispers of the northern kingdoms histories enchanted the pair of them (the Queen not ever having heard such stories and Christopher adoring the mythical creatures). 

For hours she could tell him of the fae of the northern moors, located just behind the mountain range within sight of the palaces back gates, the border of the mortal realm for leagues there after.

“Papa says I can’t listen to baby stories.” The small prince mumbled, addressing his hands coiled in his lap as he spoke. “It’s not fair, Mamma - Mother.” He stumbled, looking up to her as if pleading her to disobey her husbands rule. “He would never say so if the Grand Duke hadn’t told him so!” The Queen moved to interject, knowing her son had overstepped a firm line, but he shot in a declaration of “he calls them old wives tales!” before she could.

“His Grace means nothing by his comments, Christopher.” She hardly every called him by his true name, she always called him Cristoforo in the past, but in a short while he would be too old to listen to her and her rambling and would severe all connection with her side of his blood. That was the way it was, and it might as well happen sooner or later. “He only means to diminish their value.” His Grace had a nasty habit of doing that. Abrianna had no doubt he was loyal to the Kingdom, would do anything for it’s preservation, but she had less faith in his ability to follow orders, or be kindly without good reason. The man was all reason and no emotion, no dreams or passions. “And besides, your father would not allow one mans opinion to influence his own. If His Majesty says you mustn’t be told such tales, then he came to that conclusion by himself.” Highly unlikely, but she wanted to reassure her baby, though she did not quite understand what was so objectionable about fairytales.

“Mother…”

“Yes, my Christopher?”

“If you tell me Old Wives tales, does that make you an old wife?” The innocent boy questioned, cocking his head to the side with an expression of puzzlement evident on his face. She merely laughed, before tapping his hand with her own and leaning closer, so that any servant listening in by the door would not hear her words.

“If you promise me you tell no one what I am about to do, my little prince, I will show you how to embroider and sew. Briefly, I swear.” He loomed shy, as though he did not wish to admit he did not object to the idea, and Abrianna did not pause to allow him time to refuse her offer in an attempt to uphold society’s narrow view on what makes a man a man. She fetched some simpler patterns, basic for beginners, and by day five her son was proficient at mending (though embroidery he failed miserably at).


End file.
